Consider the hairpin turn

[deeplifequotes]

and some days i miss everyone 
who has ever left, all at once

Donte Collins Don’t miss out on Donte’s incredible book. (via buttonpoetry)

[5000letters]

I think this whole new meme of manipulative women hiding their boyfriend’s phones or looking through their messages whilst they’re sleeping or in another room or whatever is so fucking toxic, it makes my blood boil whenever I see it. It’s not healthy to distrust the person you are with. It’s not healthy to have no respect for their space or privacy. God, if you feel like you have to be on high alert when your SO gets a text or a call then that relationship probably isn’t all that great for you.

[apostal]

After You Are Jeff by Richard Siken

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy and he’s got his hands all over you. Your head is resting against the smooth curve of his shoulder and you’re trying to figure out how to get him to touch you everywhere at once, but also how to not touch you at all, because for 19 years you thought you didn’t have a body worth holding. You wanted to rip the eyes out of every boy who had ever looked at you like you might be something more than the reflection you stared into every morning. 

You’re in the car and you’re drowning in the space between what you need and what you want-his mouth on your stomach and his mouth never on your stomach-and you’ve never felt so dirty. But the beautiful boy is licking you clean, kissing tenderly along your stretch marks, sucking back everything you’ve ever hated about yourself and chewing it up. 

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy and he’s changing your mind and that’s frightening because you’ve been staring into the same reflection every morning, the same mirror, but he’s taking it down and you only have his eyes. His big brown eyes, soft and glowing with everything he sees when he looks at you, which is everything you have been running away from. And its funny because you always thought that looking at a lover would be easy, but you never thought that would mean looking at yourself too.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy and he’s got his head on your chest and his arms around your waist and his skin is pressed so tightly against yours that you think he might be dissolving into you. And you’re looking down at him and you think that you’ve never seen him so beautiful, and maybe it’s the way he’s holding you, but you’ve never felt so beautiful, and the moment he looks up at you is the exact moment Zeus has always been afraid of.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy and everything is quiet. It’s 2AM and the world has never felt so light and you realize now that the boy has always known how to touch you everywhere, has been heavy with the want of it. All you had to do was let him. 

[darmani-deactivated20150406]

PLEASE DONT IGNORE NATIVE AMERICAN PEOPLE TRYING TO BRING ATTENTION TO THE ISSUES GOING ON WITH US

OUR SISTERS AND MOTHERS AND LOVED ONES ARE GOING MISSING AND GETTING MURDERED AND STEPHEN HARPER DOESNT THINK ITS A BIG ENOUGH ISSUE BECAUSE ***NOBODY IS TALKING. NOBODY IS CARING***!!!!!!

[darmani-deactivated20150406]

Please reblog this I am begging you. Scrolling past this just proves we are being forgotten. Scrolling past this post is why Stephen harper won’t give a shit. There are not enough of us to MAKE SOME NOISE!

[kidlani]

http://www.buzzfeed.com/laurenstrapagiel/questions-remain-after-the-rcmps-udpate-on-mmiw#.pw3YAe8vW

http://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/rcmp-confirm-report-of-more-than-1-000-murdered-aboriginal-women-1.2630456

http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/edmonton/rachel-notley-calls-for-inquiry-into-missing-and-murdered-aboriginal-women-1.3123370

http://aptn.ca/news/2015/06/19/group-block-motorists-refuse-mmiw-flyer-ontariomanitoba-border/

i wanted to add a couple articles on #MMIW because it is a HUGE problem within so many native communities. v important stuff!!!!!

[politicsprose]

Love Letters From Your Writing (via Electric Lit)

[salon]

As a sniper I was not usually the victim of a traumatic event, but the perpetrator of violence and death. My actions in combat would have been more acceptable to me if I could cloak myself in the belief that the whole mission was for a greater good. Instead, I watched as the purpose of the mission slowly unraveled.

The non-propaganda version of what it’s like to be an American sniper.

[fughtopia]

Excerpt; During my combat tour I never saw the Iraqis as “savages.” They were a friendly culture who believed in hospitality, and were sometimes positive to a fault. The people are proud of their history, education system and national identity. I have listened to children share old-soul wisdom, and I have watched adults laugh and play with the naiveté of schoolboys. I met some incredible Iraqis during and after my deployment, and it is shameful to know that the movie has furthered ignorance that might put them in danger.

…As a sniper I was not usually the victim of a traumatic event, but the perpetrator of violence and death. My actions in combat would have been more acceptable to me if I could cloak myself in the belief that the whole mission was for a greater good. Instead, I watched as the purpose of the mission slowly unraveled.

I served in Iraq from 2004 to 2005. During that time, we started to realize there were no weapons of mass destruction, the 9/11 commission report determined that Iraq was not involved in the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center, false sovereignty was given to Iraq by Paul Bremer, the atrocities at Abu Ghraib were exposed, and the Battle of Fallujah was waged.

The destruction I took part in suddenly intersected with news that our reasons for waging war were untrue. The despicable conduct of those at Abu Ghraib was made more unforgivable by the honorable interactions I had with Iraqi civilians, and, together, it fueled the post-traumatic stress I struggle with today.

[newtype-newhalf-deactivated2017]

soldiers speaking out like this is pretty rare. dont ignore this post.

[skyliath-blog]

Daughter tells her Dad he’s going to be a Grandpa [x]

[falenstar78]

When he says “really” ;’)

[bitt3rfruit]

Never leave this un-reblogged

[cumberbuddy]

What a dear human being he is. 

[apostal]

You always do this;

make people miss you, make them hate you,

make them need you until their lungs are bleeding for it.

You’re always the first cigarette,

but never the last-

the way the ocean kisses the horizon,

but the horizon never kisses back.

[mobrienorwhatever]

Michael Brown Jr. (May 20, 1996 – August 9, 2014)

[thefuckingdairyqueen]

We should make this the most reblogged image on Tumblr.

[dragracists-deactivated20200527]

instead of a pissant supernatural kid, yes…let’s make this the most reblogged image on tumblr. Every time u see it, reblog without hesitation. No matter if u love or hate the person u reblog it from. We will never forget Michael Brown, no matter what happens.

[apostal]

He has a dangerous accent that obliterates every one of my ivory towers. I hang off his every word, bath in the ecstasy of his voice. He is a slender boy who loves to read, watches anime, has four swords in his bedroom. We have so much in common it takes my breathe away. His shirts always have collars, his pants are always pressed, but he walks like he’s trying to cave in on himself. Like the world is just a little bit too heavy on his shoulders. He is the first time I ache with my whole body; I didn’t know that you could feel someone in your toes, or the tip of your nose. I didn’t know that a boy’s fingers could be so beautiful, even if he picks at them constantly. You see this boy has freckles like constellations, the answers to every question about the universe spelled out on his cheekbones. Do not tell me that there is anything more wonderful than that. And when he talks he looks at me like I fill up the room. There is nothing except me, and it hurts. Sometimes I can’t even meet his eyes directly, but I wish I could. My God I wish I could. He smells like clouds on a sunny day; light and fluffy and clean, but he loves rainstorms. The day he tells me this is the day I fall in love with him. It is the first time I have found someone willing to stand in the rain with me. But he annoys me like no one else can, we bicker and tease and argue more than I thought possible and somehow, beyond word or measure, he comes back to me. The day I met him, he made me so angry that I told him to fuck off, but he didn’t and now look at me. I’m all trembling knees and love sick eyes, wandering through the caverns of a heart that I didn’t realize I had until now. And even after all of this, he doesn’t love me. I didn’t think the word Buddy could sting so much. But this is always the way; I have never been the person who writes poems about returned love. Everything comes out shaped like unrequited. I wish I could say this was a poem, but there is no poetry in this. Only the feeling of freefall, of hunger, of needing more than what I am allowed.

[apostal]

The Welcoming Party

Light a fire before letting the demons in,

Make it cozy,

Make yourself beautiful for them.

Open the door, pull out the Stratego,

Pour them a glass of wine-

                    Red like your blood.

Or just give them your blood.

Yes, that’ll do.

You've tasted it too many times anyways,

And nobody should choke on regret that much.

These demons are yellow like your childhood bedroom.

That makes you feel comfortable

Or at least you think it does, and maybe

That’s the worst part,

Not knowing what makes you comfortable,

But anyways,

                    it probably isn't the good things.

That would be too easy:

The textbook answer,

A love poem.

This isn’t a love poem, or an anything poem.

This is a war cry

because I forgot where I put the white flag;

And this is the sad thing,

                    I would raise it if I knew where it was,

Or use it to wipe the blood off the demon’s lips.

Now that sounds more like it. 

[i-just-have-a-difference-deacti]

[apostal]

It all comes down to this:

I wanted to give you my bones,

Split my chest open and whisper

“Here is my heart. Here is everything.

This is all there is to give.

I hope you can hold it well.

I hope you have warm hands.” 

[apostal]

There is a story somewhere in here. Here as in the meat and bones, the heart and soul. The infinite space between two bodies and the music that only some ears know. Yes, there is a story in this place and it looks a lot like almost. The infinite space between two bodies almost closing, coming together like two hands eager for touch, almost, almost and just like that this is a love story, or maybe a tragedy. It shouldn't have been, but it is. But lets stop talking about that. Lets talk about the rivers I drown myself in. Or the mountains, because I like the mountains. So there is this river and I drown myself in it, but I never die. My feet sink like anchors to the bottom and I stay there for awhile before floating back up. I never die and I always come back, and now this is starting to sound like a love story. So how about the mountains? I have a knack for moving them, I think. It’s like chess; a precise game of loneliness in which I win and lose every time. I’m standing here, you’re standing there and there’s that infinite space between two bodies. The music is playing and we can both hear it, then you smile at me and I move the mountain between us. This is the tragedy. This is Checkmate. Game over. But it isn’t, because this is the river too. It has always been the river and the mountains, drowning and hiding. And you at the pinnacle of it all wearing almost like your best suit. This, this is the story; this mountain, this river, this infinite space. The meat and bones of it all. And oh the music, we can still hear it can’t we? Even with all of this in the way, it still plays and it sounds beautiful. 

[cloudyskiesandcatharsis]

To the man standing on the corner holding the sign that said “God hates faggots.” I’ve never seen, exactly who it is that you paperclip your knees, meld your hands together and pray to But I think I know what he looks like: I bet your God is about 5’10”. I bet he weighs 185. Probably stands the way a high school diploma does when it’s next to a GED. I bet your god has a mullet. I bet he wears flannel shirts with no sleeves, a fanny pack and says words like “getrdun.” I bet your god—I bet your god—I bet your god watches FOX news, Dog the Bounty Hunter, voted for John McCain, and loves Bill O’Reilly. I bet your god lives in Arizona. I bet his high school served racism in the cafeteria and offered “hate speech” as a second language. I bet he has a swastika inside of his throat, and racial slurs tattooed to his tongue just to make intolerance more comfortable in his mouth. I bet he has a burning cross as a middle finger and Jim Crow underneath his nails. Your god is a confederate flags wet dream conceived on a day when the sky decided to slice her own wrists, I bet your god has a drinking problem. I bet he sees the bottom of the shot glass more often than his own children. I bet he pours whiskey on his dreams until they taste like good ideas, Probably cusses like an electric guitar with Tourette’s plugged into an ocean. I bet he yells like a schizophrenic nail gun, damaging all things that care about him enough to get close. I bet there are angels in Heaven with black eyes and broken halos who claimed they fell down the stairs. I bet your god would’ve made Eve without a mouth and taught her how to spread her legs like a magazine that she will never ever ever be pretty enough to be in. Sooner or later you will realize that you are praying to your own shadow, that you are standing in front of mirrors and are worshipping your own reflection. Your God stole my god’s identity and I bet he’s buying pieces of heaven on eBay. So next time you bend your knees, next time you bow your head I want you to tell your god— that my god is looking for him.

Rudy Francisco, Your God (via cloudyskiesandcatharsis)

[apostal]

This is what I want to tell you...

Here is my bleeding tongue,

here are all of my promises at early dusk.

I’ve got to tell you that I’ve never seen someone

who looks good and kind like you do,

like my favourite character, the one

we’ve all been rooting for.

Late at night I think about fucking you unholy

and trembling and dirty in the moonlight and how

your moans would be my favourite soundtrack.

I want to kiss you and suck on your neck,

I want to touch your hand,

your knees,

your cinnamon freckles.

I think maybe you are forgiveness or the answer

to a question I have yet to realize but can already taste.

You are my mouthful of nervous and scared and alive,

And can I tell you something?

It shouldn’t hurt to look at someone like you,

desire shouldn’t feel so much like tooth and nail,

but you blind me like nothing ever has before.

Open your arms for me,

whisper in my ear all of your favourite stories

and hold me until morning.

Hold me until it feels like breathing.

Hold me until it feels like living.

I know I am a quiet person,

but I swear to God that I love you

and my soul seems to think that you’ve been here before,

So tell me,

why can’t you stay now?

[apostal]

Something about natural disaster- trembling earth, crashing waves, boulders racing each other down the hillside. Something about destruction feels like craving, one to many shots, the high, the stumble in the dark.

But you don’t forget. in the moments after the asteroid crashes or the blurry eyed mornings it is always there. That gap toothed mouth in my chest moans hungry, unlatches its jaw farther.

It licks its kindling teeth, drools gasoline so I feed it lit matches or flint or anything that burns hot enough to scare the crows away, to burn the bridges and the shoes of those who dare to wander too close to me.

But I am not a Phoenix, there is only silence in the aftermath. When I look to the sky there are no helicopters coming to airlift me to safety, no search teams coming to find my lost.

Something about natural disaster screams my name; holds me close like a lover, kisses tenderly on my open mouth until my knees fold and there is only one thing left to say: I don’t know why they haven’t named a hurricane after me.